


Make Me Your Villain

by ElegyGoldsmith



Category: Shadow and Bone (TV), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy, The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Alina Starkov is Still a Sun Summoner, Alina Starkov is a bratty sub, Alpha Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Alpha Darkling, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Armitage David Hux, Baghra Leia, Carrying, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dark Alina Starkov, Dark Rey (Star Wars), Dark Reylo (Star Wars), Darklina - Freeform, Dominant Darkling, Dominant Kylo Ren, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Finn Kir-Bataar, Force Bond Sexual Situations (Star Wars), Force Bond Shenanigans (Star Wars), Forced Marriage, Forced Relationship, Fuck the Jedi, Grishaverse, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Jannah Kir-Bataar, Kidnapping, Knotting, Kylo Ren Needs a Hug, Kylo Ren Redemption, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, Kylo is The Darkling, Mal is a big wet blankie, Mating Bites, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Murder, Nikolai "Poe" Dameron-Lantsov, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Alina Starkov, Omega Rey (Star Wars), POV The Darkling | Aleksander Morozova, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rey is Alina, Slow Burn, Smut, Submissive Rey (Star Wars), Zoya Rose Tikoskaya, oops I'm an omega, reylo x darklina, shadow fold
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:54:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29251797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElegyGoldsmith/pseuds/ElegyGoldsmith
Summary: Reylina’s heart slams in her throat.She spins as she stands, turning to confront the intruder — but it’s only a man. Alone, just like she is.He’s tall, looming over her even from a few feet away. Slender, but his dark militarykeftais tailored so perfectly that even from here she can see his body is corded with lean muscle. His skin is pale — too pale for a man of the desert — and a shock of raven-dark hair falls to his chin, framing his angular face.But his eyes are the thing that make her drag in a shocked breath. They’re dark quartz, smoky like the crystal hanging between her breasts, smoldering into her where she stands and making her stomach swoop with anticipation.In which the destiny of Reylina Starkov, a scavenger and Omega sun summoner, becomes entwined with that of the Darkling, Alpha Emperor Kylo Ren.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, The Darkling | Aleksander Morozova/Alina Starkov
Comments: 52
Kudos: 155





	1. Kyber & Quartz

**Author's Note:**

> **CW // Mild noncon, but no one gets hurt**
> 
> I have no excuse for this shameless, smutty, relatively slow-burn mashup. The hornie brain wants what the hornie brain wants, and apparently the hornie brain wants villainfuckery ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> 🖤
> 
> My love and gratitude to [Ev3rMichelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ev3rMichelle) for accompanying me on this new adventure! (or me saying “Get in, we’re going to the Grishaverse)
> 
> Did you read the TWs? **Please read them again!!** They'll probably be updated as the story gets kinkier 🌘🔥
> 
> **✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* Now complete! *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧**  
>  \+ **[Daddy’s Knot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25711933) | Omega Rey needs money to make her tuition payment. One night with a faceless Alpha and his twisted tastes promises to change that.**
> 
>   
> 
> 
> 🌘 

The nape of Reylina’s neck thrills, her body rousing strangely as she stares at the crashed starship.

A lifetime she’s been scavenging here in the Boneyard, picking away at the wreckage of the Galactic Civil War like an ant on an ancient carcass. Even after three centuries it’s a sprawling wasteland, the twisted hulks of metal lying silent all the way to the horizon.

Never before has she felt this shudder of primal awareness, like something inside her is coming awake.

Maybe it’s because she’s so close to the Shadow Fold. Rumor is that every planet has its own Fold, a place where light refuses to penetrate, where shadows swirl like smoke — and whether from superstition or something else, everyone steers clear, villagers and marauders alike.

It’s always there, of course, a line of occluded sky like the vanguard of a thunderstorm. Right now it’s a safe distance from where Rey’s standing — but her knuckles whiten on her staff as she peels the dust goggles from her face, finding the place where the desert’s russet sand pales to ghostly ash.

Surely volcra are only children’s stories, boogeymen made up by Ana Kuya and the other matrons of Duke Unkar’s orphanage to keep them in their beds. And in retrospect, that was probably just as well; Reylina and Mal had run wild through the streets of Keramzin during the daytime, stealing sandskiffs to cross the ribbon of desert that lay between the town and the nearest of the fallen ships.

_Mal_.

The thought of him makes her gut leap strangely. It’s been three years since the Jedi Examiners claimed him as a Tracker, three years since she’s seen him — _really_ seen him, not just the sporadic holos he sends. By rights she shouldn’t even be out here; she should probably be back in her cramped hovel getting ready to see him, but her anxiety had gotten the best of her after a restless night. Scavenging seemed like a better use of these last few hours than primping.

Or so she’d told herself.

But as that hum runs through her again, she knows _this_ is what really brought her out here. The feeling she gets sometimes, right before stumbling onto something truly amazing.

Not that anyone would know it from looking at this ship.

Back when it could still fly, it was a runabout that probably carried a complement of ten. Now it’s just a broken, empty coffin.

She glances around, but there’s no sign of other scavengers nearby, and raiders don’t strike in full daylight. The Boneyard is big enough for all to plunder without crossing paths, but she wouldn’t fancy being stranded this close to the Shadow Fold.

Especially not today. Not when Mal’s just hours away.

The ominous skyline is eclipsed by the ship’s energy bolt-scarred hull as she steps inside. Mercifully there’s light enough to see as she prowls along the narrow corridor, boots whispering against the sand-strewn floor, staff at the ready.

There’s always the risk of ambush — yet it’s not fear that’s thrumming through her now, but _anticipation_.

Whatever it is, it’s close.

The hallway opens onto the downed ship’s bridge, and she stops as the awareness fills her, buzzing through her nerves like static. The horizon is crooked through the cracked windshield, any bodies of the unfortunate crew long since borne away by carrion beasts — but there’s something lying on the floor. A lump that isn’t part of the deckplates, veiled in the ubiquitous sand.

She’s not sweating any more than usual, but either the heat or her excitement that Mal’s finally coming home must be getting to her because it looks like the thing is _glowing_. Radiating softly, like starlight.

Is it a meteorite? The bridge’s disarray notwithstanding, there’s no sign of a projectile strike.

No, this thing came with the ship.

_Careful, Reyling_.

But the new stirring in her gut counters the voice of warning, trying to reach up out of the darkness within. Calling to her.

She glances back at the open doorway to the corridor, but she’s still alone — and almost like she’s watching herself from some distant place, one of her gloved hands stretches forward, brushing against the shrouded thing and clearing away the sand.

It’s a raw crystal point, clear at one end and fading to black at the other, tendrils of darkness woven throughout the palm-length matrix. Reylina’s astonished to find that it _is_ glowing, pulsing with a sterling light, brighter as she stares.

Kyber.

It’s an amplifier.

Her heart thuds as she stares at the length of chain glittering through the dust. Only Jedi Knights carry amplifiers.

And Sith Warriors. Darklings.

A chill threads through her body. Someone carried this during the Great War. She’s stumbled on a priceless treasure — one that’s been waiting here for hundreds of years, more than ten times the span of her own short life.

Maybe the Black Heretic himself flung this ship into the chaotic heart of the Shadow Fold, ultimately to be spat out here in the Wastes.

Hundreds of years, and so little has changed. A different Darkling now sits on the Black Throne, controlling the gateway between worlds, while here at the galaxy’s edge everything remains as it always has.

Grimy. Destitute. Forgotten.

Mal was lucky to be taken by the Jedi Examiners; even if it meant Reylina losing him, he’d gone to a better life. His Force abilities, relatively weak as they were, had come as an utter shock to her — but even through the long nights of grieving his absence, her lone consolation was that he had escaped this wretched life. 

Mal wouldn’t live and die as she will, scrabbling and scrounging for everything. Always wondering when — or _if_ — her next meal will come.

To hell with buying passage on one of the illicit transit ships; she can buy her own ship for what this kyber crystal will fetch, and enough Squallers, Inferni, and Earthshakers to crew it clear across the system. Maybe even further.

There’s no reason to do anything but stuff the crystal in her pack and book it back to Keramzin, try to find a fence at Niima Trading Post — but for some unfathomable reason she finds herself tugging her gloves off and reaching out to take the thing in her bare hands.

It’s warm. Not hot, but certainly not as cool as the deckplates around it — as chill as it _should_ be, by rights. It even tingles in her cupped palm, as though there’s a current running through it.

She’s heard kyber called _living crystal_ before. 

Maybe that’s more than just a saying.

The crystal feels heavier than it looks, but it’s small enough that she stops shy of tucking it into her slim pack. If it somehow burns a hole in the threadbare canvas, or simply falls out as she’s crossing the shifting dunes between here and Keramzin, she’ll never find it again.

Reluctantly, she slips the chain over her neck and tucks the smoky rock under her breastband.

The crystal thrums into her skin as though calling to her — and the strange, indescribable thing rousing under her skin answers.

Reylina’s pulse sings in her ears, as though she’s still as stonework, something deep in her gut cracks.

A frisson of fear goes through her as she realizes there’s someone behind her.

It’s impossible.

One moment she’s alone and then she isn’t. The silence in the broken ship is shattered by a sharply indrawn breath, and the unmistakable whisper of boots shifting on the metal decking.

Reylina’s heart slams in her throat.

She spins as she stands, turning to confront the intruder — but it’s only a man. Alone, just like she is.

He’s tall, looming over her even from a few feet away. Slender, but his dark military _kefta_ is tailored so perfectly that even from here she can see his body is corded with lean muscle. His skin is pale — too pale for a man of the desert — and a shock of raven-dark hair falls to his chin, framing his angular face.

But his eyes are the thing that make her drag in a shocked breath. They’re dark quartz, smoky like the crystal hanging between her breasts, smoldering into her where she stands and making her stomach swoop with anticipation.

“Who are you?” 

The haughty tilt of head as he regards her betrays his designation. Only an Alpha would have such an imperious air — and Reylina’s hackles prickle.

She’s always been relieved to be a Beta. For a long time it had seemed like Mal was a Beta too; how many nights they’d spent whispering about their future together, the way they’d escape this backwater, find their way to a better place, a better planet. Then he’d presented as an Alpha, and the Jedi Examiners had borne him away.

But this man is different from Mal. Different from any man, any Alpha that Reylina’s ever met, his musk of honey and embers coiling into her nose like a delicious perfume. Not cloying or overpowering, but inviting.

She raises her chin, refusing to be intimidated no matter how sexy he smells. “Who are _you?_ ”

The man's eyes narrow, burning into her like living embers. “You will tell me who you are.” 

He says the words firmly, his voice cold with command, but they ring hollowly against the metal bulkheads. Reylina arches an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Is that supposed to do something?”

She swallows back a giggle as the man clamps his full lips into a line, regarding her even more carefully now. Studying her, those obsidian eyes moving over her in a way that makes her squirm as heat floods her belly.

“You’re not a Jedi.”

“Neither are you,” she returns just as coolly.

Strangely, the man’s lips quirk in a crooked smile. “You don’t know who I am.”

It’s a statement, not a question — and even more curiously, he sounds _amused_. “Should I?”

“You’re a fiery little thing, I’ll give you that.” He’s still watching her with that unsettling intensity, the space between them electric with awareness. “Where are you?”

Reylina scowls. He can’t’ve crashed here; the Boneyard’s been quiet as death this morning, and his dark clothes are spotless, not even dusted with sand. “Don’t you know?”

“I can’t see your surroundings,” the dark-eyed man says softly. “Only you.”

Her heart slams, stomach plummeting at the sudden, inescapable impression of vast distance — and she gasps as she realizes he isn’t actually standing here in the wrecked ship with her. He’s somewhere else altogether, stars away from here.

Icy panic floods her veins, but the thrumming thing between them is like a tether, steadying her amid the neverending oblivion.

The man’s eyes drop to her collarbones, where the necklace’s silver chain disappears under her tunic. It’s as though he knows what’s there. “Where did you get that?”

Reylina tugs the crystal out from under her shirt, hissing through her gritted jaw as it grazes her skin.

“It’s not mine,” she explains quickly. “I found it.”

Her companion’s eyes darken. “The power is yours. And the amplifier’s chosen you.”

“You’re wrong,” Reylina snaps, a mortified blush heating her cheeks. For some reason his words are stoking a deep resentment in her gut. It’s the kriffing kyber crystal that’s doing this, not her — surely, whatever he is, he can sense that much. “I’m not anything. I’m not _doing_ anything.”

The man cocks his head again, hair gleaming like falcon feathers as he lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Not intentionally, perhaps.”

“I’m not what you think I am!”

“I doubt you have any idea what you are, Omega,” he murmurs.

The air gushes out of her lungs.

“I’m not— I’m a Beta,” she manages hoarsely, trying to speak, to hear, to _think_ through the singing of her blood in her own ears.

The Alpha only chuckles, a deep, melodic sound that sends a shiver through her knees. “Your body’s betraying you. Revealing itself.” He steps closer — and here with her or not, she can _feel_ him, his scent enfolding her as he gazes down at her. “Let’s see what you can do.”

Quicker than Reylina can flinch he slips his graceful fingers through hers, and his touch is so vividly _real_ that she cries out at the firm pressure.

A call rings through her, wordless but utterly powerful, and the thing that’s been stirring in her — that roused her this morning and led her out to this lonely sliver of desert beside the Fold — rises up to answer.

Light blazes through everything, blooming from within Reylina, pouring through her and filling the ruined cockpit in a glorious torrent, shining diamond-bright.

_I’m here. I’ve always been here_.

Tears prick her eyes at the voice, so ancient that she thought she’d made it up. But it had only been hiding, consigned to the shadows and bricked up to be forgotten. Locked away since she was a child.

And now it’s free.

The flood of light fades — not vanishing, but simply ebbing for now, resettling within her. Finding its true place.

Dimly Reylina’s aware of a pressure around her waist. She returns to herself to find that the Alpha’s steadying her, gathering her close as she sags in his arms.

“I guess you only _look_ like a mouse,” he croons softly, sparing a hand to cup her cheek.

Her core clenches at the tender gesture, her pussy throbbing with alien longing as he thumbs a tendril of hair back behind her ear, lingering dangerously. His granite eyes peer into her, stirring her, and she bites her lower lip to stifle a wanton groan as she feels his chest thudding with his own fierce heartbeat.

“Who are you?” Reylina murmurs. The urge to press his own lips to his plush ones is almost overwhelming — and as primal need surges through her, she whimpers from the strength of it, as though all sense is drowning in lust.

He smiles, but there’s a wicked glint in his quartz eyes. “You still don’t know?”

_Alpha_.

For a few long moments that’s the only thought that reverberates through her mind, but she forces herself to focus through the tumult of heightened sensations. Everything feels sharper, clearer, from the cut of his black Imperial _kefta_ to his tantalizing scent.

Her heart stops, striking with redoubled force in the next instant.

Not dark. _Black_.

There’s only one soldier in the Imperial forces who’s allowed to wear a ink-black _kefta_. Even here, at the furthest point from the universe’s bright center, that’s known.

General Kylo Ren, Commander of the First Order. Leader of the dreaded _oprichniki_ , the Knights of Ren.

The Jedi-killer — and the new emperor.

“You’re the Darkling,” Reylina gasps, shoving backward hard enough to break free of his iron embrace.

His eyes flash with anger. “Tell me your name.”

He’s trying to Command her — but whatever’s connecting them makes the words ring hollow.

Reylina mutely shakes her head, refusing to bend to his will.

“You’re a Sun Summoner, an Etherealki. And you’re an Omega.” The Darkling steps closer again, his stern glower sending a perverse shudder of longing through her sex. His scent is trying to coax her into submission, surrounding her like the skeins of eldritch power for which he’s known. “You belong with me. Like calls to like.”

“No,” she grits out — but the thing inside her knows her protest is as empty as his Command.

The ground rumbles beneath her feet, and she glances out the shattered, crooked window to see a sandstorm unfurling like gauze over the horizon. Somehow it’s stolen up on her out of nowhere. 

The Darkling’s pale hand lashes out, and Reylina yelps — but he only knots his fingers in her hair, drawing her face kissing-close.

“Run from me as long as you’re able, _moya solnishka_ ,” the Jedi-killer murmurs, his voice deep and terrifying as an abyss. “But know this: I will tear the universe apart to find you.”

“ _No_ ,” Reylina howls, her lips burning with need.

And then, suddenly, he’s gone. The link between them shut again.

For now.

There’s no time to think, only escape the oncoming storm — and as Rey sprints back to her sandskiff, dragging her goggles back over her eyes, she realizes that the secret crease between her thighs is fully, shamefully soaked.

The worst man in the universe, and she’s _drenched_ for him.

_Omega_.

The memory of his voice is so overwhelming that her fingers stumble on the lines of her skiff as she trims the sails.

The kyber crystal tingles between Rey’s breasts as she speeds back to Keramzin ahead of the gale, thrumming like the thing that’s awoken inside her. A voice that demands to finally be heard.

The Darkling is coming for her. All she can do now is run.


	2. Moya Solnishka

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He thinks of someplace far away. Of a strange, beautiful face; of fiery eyes gazing up at him with wonder as he holds her in his arms, solid and warm and real. Of her scent, calling to him. Awakening something he’d long since forgotten.
> 
> It tugs deep in his mind. The tether.
> 
> Is she there on the other end, thinking of him, too?
> 
> **The Darkling grapples with the idea of finding the nameless sun summoner Omega — the only person in the universe who can truly destroy him.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW // murder, reference to child abuse, blindness (Baghra)**
> 
> It is a truth universally acknowledged that the Russian in Shadow and Bone is bastardized to hell & back — but the ship has sailed and we’re aboard (welcome fellow Darklinas, Reylos & House Targ!), so here’s a quick lexicon to get us all on the same quarter-arsed page!
> 
> Grisha = masters of the small science; like Jedi/Sith, but a separate order of Force-users  
>  _otkazat’sya_ = non-Grisha; more broadly, non-Force-users  
>  _moi tsar_ = term of address to a tsar/emperor  
>  _moi soverennyi_ = term of address for the Darkling (one he prefers)  
>  _tsarevitch_ = prince/heir presumptive  
>  _oprichniki_ = the Darkling’s elite crew, aka the Knights of Ren  
>  _moya solnishka_ = “my little sun” (endearment)  
>  _lumiya_ = lanterns of synthetic sunlight  
>  _grenatye_ = grenades  
>  _kefta_ = embroidered robe that indicates Grisha sub-order  
>  _Chernaya Luna_ = the Black Moon, aka the Death Star*  
>  _volcra_ = scary flying gargoyle-y monsters that live in the Shadow Fold  
> Shadow Fold = an area of quantum indeterminacy created by the Black Heretic, Darth Vader 300 years ago; connects all the worlds in the galaxy  
> Malyen “Mal” Oretsev = a very [Nice Guy](https://www.reddit.com/r/niceguys/)  
> 🌘  
> The three Grisha orders are:  
>  **CORPORALKI**  
>  _The Order of the Living & the Dead_  
> Healers/Heartrenders  
>  **ETHERALKI**  
>  _Order of Summoners_  
>  Squallers, Inferni, Tidemakers, Earthshakers*  
>  **MATERIALKI**  
>  _Order of Fabrikators_  
>  Durasts, Alkemi  
> 🌘  
> The **shatterpoint** concept is drawn from Star Wars canon.  
>  _* = my augmentation to existing canon_  
>  Saints thank [Ev3rMichelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ev3rMichelle) for all her help beta’ing this! I love her, and her new Clyde fic is _chef kiss_.  
>  _♥ ♡ ♥ _ **More notes at the end!**_ ♥ ♡ ♥_
> 
>   
> 

_ The Darkling. General Ren. _

He’s had hundreds of names, hundreds of titles through the centuries. These are only the most recent, but they’ve been with him long enough to become careworn. They suit him as much as his black  _ kefta _ .

_ Emperor _ , on the other hand, is a name that’s altogether new.

The throne is comfortable enough, but he slouches in it to telegraph his disregard — only letting his forefinger stray, scrawling tiny circles along the chair’s arm. It amuses him to hear the ripples of fear stirring in the too-large throne room, whispering under the vaulted ceiling like autumn leaves falling in their final death rattles.

Maybe it’s the proximity to the subtle controls hidden within thumb’s reach that’s disquieting them so. Or maybe it’s the fact that he’s sitting  _ on _ the throne instead of beside it. That he has become what he is now by murdering the last man who sat here, however briefly.

_ Jedi-Killer _ . That particular epithet hails from another lifetime, but it’s returned to him now that Snoke is dead.

Surely they’re whispering it already, these simpering courtiers who stare at him when his gaze is turned elsewhere. Yet as soon as his piercing gaze finds them, their lashes flicker lower; they glance down, to the side, straightening their ridiculously opulent robes. Looking anywhere but at him, offering their pathetic mumbles of  _ moi soverennyi _ as though that will prove their loyalty.

Not that they  _ are _ loyal. Any of them. Not to the Galactic Senate, nor to Chancellor-turned-Emperor Snoke. Polarizing as he was, the old man’s fanatical supporters have deserted his cause now that he’s in pieces.

Most of  _ this _ sort, the ultra-wealthy, never declared for him openly. They’re too smart for that — or more likely, their advisers told them to keep their lips zipped. That selfsame hypocrisy has kept them cloaked in safety now, has emboldened them to move among the other oligarchs, if just as fearfully.

It’s not the Obsidian Throne that’s unsettling them, after all, but the person who’s occupying it.

An Alpha emperor is terrifying enough. An Alpha Darkling on the Obsidian Throne can only evoke the centuries-old memory of the Black Heretic and the twisted  _ tsar _ he served.

He doesn’t mind. Fear is his friend. It has been since he was a child, cowering from the shadows he would one day learn to master.

Phasma now occupies the place at the emperor’s side where the Darkling himself stood before he killed Snoke, her quicksilver staff on conspicuous display. The metallic crimson embroidery flashes against her blue  _ kefta _ , reminding these scraping courtiers that she could unleash an inferno at any moment, burning them alive in their elaborate wools and silks.

Surely more than a handful of these simpering wretches hope that his enforcer can be purchased and turned against him. He can see it in the way certain gazes linger on her, on the way the furtive murmurs come after the too-long glances.

That was Snoke’s folly, too. Thinking the Second Army’s loyalty belonged — or  _ could _ belong — to anyone but the man who’d trained them.

“The Ladies Ghetra of Lothal,” Phasma announces, her alto ringing through the grandiose chamber. 

The Darkling wonders if anyone else can hear the note of boredom in her voice. Probably not. His  _ oprichniki _ are soldiers, not bureaucrats or flouncing courtiers; to  _ otkazat’sya _ , outsiders, they’re icy. Inscrutable.

The two women who sweep forward offer low curtsies despite their advanced age, gemstones glittering in the folds of their rich gowns. “House Ghetra is honored to pledge you our loyalty,  _ moi soverennyi _ .”

The Darkling nods, hardly paying attention. House Ghetra isn’t likely to foment rebellion, but he forces a faint smile to his lips anyway, and the women’s cheeks color with pleasure as they straighten.

“I am honored to accept the fealty of House Ghetra,” he says, the words tasteless after so many repetitions.

The women withdraw, still aquiver with delight at coaxing the faintest sign of favor from him.

Then it’s House Corrusc. House Tanglea. House Dunrey.

The parade of ones and twos keep trickling before him to offer their pledges, the words ringing with resentment or fear. Sometimes both.

He drinks it in, even the rare glower merely amusing him — until Phasma announces, “Duke and Duchess Bayngold of Corellia.”

Bayngold’s very presence in this court is an affront, though certainly none of the old man’s ingratiating companions might guess it to look at him. He’s keen-eyed, his elegant robes perfectly tailored to hide his paunchy frame.

So many others wear their vices openly, but the Darkling knows what lies beneath Bayngold’s gilt-painted skin. The secret that’s writ into his viscera if not his visage.

His roving finger stills on the arm of the Obsidian Throne, the knot of rage tightening in his chest as the old man and his platinum-coiffed wife move to the fore.

Their obeisances are unimpeachable, until Bayngold opens his rubbery lips. “House Bayngold is honored to pledge its loyalty,  _ moi tsar _ .”

“Is it?”

His idle question sends a ripple through the throne room, and Bayngold’s head snaps up. The old man’s rheumy eyes are narrowed not in fear but anger — and the Darkling allows himself another wan smile.

Bayngold blinks, perfectly outraged as hundreds of gazes flick between him and the raised dais where the Obsidian Throne looms, darker than midnight. “Of course.”

The Darkling lets his forefinger stray along the throne’s arm. “And to whom is House Bayngold pledging its loyalty?”

Bayngold’s wife goes ashen, but the duke only twitches, his scowl deepening as he stares. Surely it hadn’t been a mere slip of the tongue; the old man only seems surprised that his omission was noted. “To you, of course,  _ moi tsar _ .”

“And to your shareholders,” the Darkling adds coolly.

Bayngold has the audacity to chuckle, spreading his hands in a helpless gesture. “One must make a living, Your Grace."

“A living…” the Darkling murmurs, and Phasma shifts almost imperceptibly, the butt of her quicksilver staff clinking against the stone floor.

“Thousands rely on Skyhawk Newswire for their subsistence,  _ moi tsar _ ,” Baygold adds, so pompous that it’s genuinely astonishing he doesn’t choke on his own spit.

The murmurs of approval from behind the crooked duke are almost as infuriating as the man himself. Surely they’ve all heard the rumors. They know what he is, or suspect well enough, but it doesn’t matter. Not when so many of them have secrets of their own — and the shadows pooled at the edges of the chamber leap higher in defiance of the torchlight. 

“You assume responsibility for your workers’ lives, Bayngold?”

The other man’s chest puffs in his tailored robes. “Some  _ do _ consider me a father figure, Your Grace.”

The Darkling hears the wave of whispers before he realizes he’s on his feet, clenched fists at his sides.

He descends from the dais slowly, staring at Bayngold as the sheep behind the duke shrink back, trapped between their new emperor and the shadows crawling up the walls behind them like ravenous tongues.

“A  _ father figure, _ ” the Darkling bites out as he stalks closer. Bayngold’s painted wife has sense enough to fall back a few paces, but the media mogul holds his ground, if uncertainly. His fear seeps through the layers of blockers and perfume, stinking like rotten meat. “Is that what your children call you? Father?”

“The duchess—” Bayngold glances at his wife, head twitching and cheeks blotching under his golden skin to find her further back than expected. “—er, the duchess and I were not blessed with children,  _ moi tsar _ .”

“Is that why you started buying them?”

The old man’s eyes go wide with shock. His mouth falls open, but only strangled sounds emerge from his trembling lips.

“Do  _ they _ call you Father — the children you purchase to abuse with your despicable friends?” the Darkling seethes softly.

Cries go up from the furthest edges of the crowd, and movement erupts in the Darkling’s peripheral vision as the costumed nobles slam into each other bodily, milling in panic.

Though he’s staring at the despicable man, unblinking, he knows what they must be seeing. Shadows peeling themselves away from the walls, pooling on the smooth floor and flowing across it like spilled ink. Slithering closer as though drawn by a magnet.

The old man’s soundless gaping turns to gasps as the first of the shadows reaches his feet. He clutches at his neck but it’s in vain; the darkness is inside his body, coursing through his veins and slowing his blood. Choking him from within.

“I can’t hear you, Duke,” the Darkling croons.

The courtiers are frozen to marble around them, motionless with horror as Bayngold’s rasping breaths grow shorter. Shallower. More desperate.

To the Darkling, it’s music.

“When they cry out in the night, Bayngold, is it  _ for _ you?” the Darkling asks smoothly as Bayngold’s watery eyes begin to roll back in his head. “Or is it  _ from _ you?”

The twisted old man has only moments left.

The Darkling spreads his hands wide, bringing them together in a single, thunderous clap — and as darkness explodes from Bayngold’s body, he falls like a discarded marionette.

There’s a  _ crack _ as the old man’s skull splits on the smooth stone floor. Only then does the blonde, cinched Duchess Bayngold start to scream.

The Darkling turns on his heel and strides back toward the dais, surmounting it in a few lazy steps without a backward glance.

“Clean that up,” he tells Phasma, settling himself back onto the Obsidian Throne as the darkness melts away and she beckons  _ otkazat’sya _ guards forward to deal with the mess.

🌘

It’s a curious relief to see the Little Palace again after so many years of waiting to take his rightful place as emperor. The surface of the  _ Chernaya Luna _ satellite is shrouded in perpetual night — that’s it’s blessing and its curse — and the space between the two palaces is a ribbon of welcoming shadow.

Phasma and her Inferni find their own way back from the Grand Palace, leaving him alone in his speeder for the ride. He suspects that’s intentional; he’d thank his enforcer for it, but she’s not Rose. A simple nod will suffice.

The planetoid’s synthesized atmosphere rushes over his face in a calming river. No one else is privy to this route, and even on full manual control he can navigate unthinkingly through the glassy, razor-edged canyons.

His mind wanders.

He thinks of someplace far away. Of a strange, beautiful face; of fiery eyes gazing up at him with wonder as he holds her in his arms, solid and warm and real. Of her scent, calling to him. Awakening something he’d long since forgotten.

It tugs deep in his mind. The tether.

Is she there on the other end, thinking of him, too?

Then the familiar silhouette of the Little Palace emerges through the twilight, and his reprieve is at an end.

He knows where he needs to go — but he sighs heavily as he parks the speeder and turns his footsteps toward the highest, most forlorn-looking tower.

She always  _ has _ had a flair for the dramatic.

🌘

He regrets his decision to come up here as soon as swings the door open and the wall of heat hits him. It’s like walking into a furnace — and he draws a cloak of icy shadows over his shoulders as the shy little Tailor skitters out of the way.

The old woman herself is hunched beside her tile oven, a wizened, impossibly ancient figure.

“Leave us,” Baghra snaps without turning, her voice harsh in the close space.

The girl — Kaydel something or other — is no doubt relieved to be dismissed and scuttles out, closing the heavy wooden door behind her with a thunk.

“How’s she working out?” he asks by way of greeting.

Baghra grunts. “Heard you had an eventful morning.”

“I’m surprised you hear anything tucked away up here like a bloody volcra.”

It’s warm up here,” the old woman sniffs, “and you’re the emperor now. You can’t just go around killing people who don’t recite their oaths just  _ so _ .”

“Bayngold was a child trafficker,” he growls — and the shadows twitch as he glares at her back. “A monster.”

She rubs her hands together, dry skin rasping like tree bark. “Then send the First Army to arrest him. The people want justice.”

His jaw aches from clenching steel-tight, and he forces his muscles to relax. The First Army’s loyalty isn’t the problem. They follow Poe Dameron, the dashing young general; Poe is bound to Finn, Finn to him — but she knows that already. 

“ _ Justice _ .” He forces a grim laugh. ”Because with Bayngold bribing the courts, using his expensive lawyers to worm his way free …  _ that _ would’ve been justice?”

Dispatching him like you did, all people will remember is that you murdered a man in cold blood.” Baghra sniffs disdainfully. “You’ve always been a petulant boy.”

“And you’ve always been a bitter old hag,” he growls, the tower’s shadows flickering in his fury.

“It’s that girl.”

He forces the anger down, swallowing it like bile. She enjoys needling him, and he can’t let her know she’s succeeding in getting under his skin.

Instead he pitches his voice low with boredom. “You’re getting demented in your old age.”

“Don’t lie to me, boy!” she snarls, so savagely that it actually startles him — and the nape of his neck thrills with goosebumps as the tether  _ tugs _ .

Telling Baghra about the Omega was probably a mistake, but it’s too late to take it back now.

He slumps back against the wall, reluctantly letting the ignorant façade drop as logs crackle in the old woman’s tile stove. “You think she’s the one.”

“If she’s a sun summoner like you say. Great risk brings great reward, as like calls to like.”

He rolls his eyes as the timeworn phrase.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me, child,” Baghra snaps, whipping her head around to glare at him sightlessly.

He stares at the dark hollows where her eyes used to be. Leia Organa, now Baghra. She had rich brown irises, warm and glittering like amber, or cold with ambition.

Then came Snoke.

How she can still see now is a mystery — and powerful as he is, he doesn’t dare pry.

“The sun summoner could be your balance, or she could destroy you, it entirely depends,” the old woman adds.

He narrows his gaze, suspicious as she turns back to her oven. “On what?”

“On  _ you _ , of course.” She resettles her thick shawl around her shoulders, swaddling herself even tighter as sweat beads his brow. “You could destroy the volcra, do what your grandfather couldn’t and actually stabilize the Shadow Fold, manipulate the fabric of reality together…”

His heart skips.

Everything he’s ever wanted. The ability to truly set things right, to finish what Anakin started — and it’s finally out there. Waiting for him.

“…but if you try to manipulate  _ her _ , you’ll lose her,” the old woman goes on, audacious enough to grumble. “You’ll create the very person who can bring you down once and for all. That’s your burden: mastering both your Alpha nature and your own power enough to be her equal.”

“ _ Her _ equal?” He knows he’s snarling as he surges upright, but it’s unthinkable. “That slip of a girl? She’s no one.”

“The Star Torque knows its true owner.” Baghra draws her shawl back, and it’s there in her lap. A silver collar studded with diamonds.

The shadowed crystal hanging against the Darkling’s chest hums as he stares at the other amplifier, its gemstones glittering in the low light.

“And  _ you _ used to be no one, too, Aleks — or have you forgotten?”

He grits his jaw as his scar cramps, the jagged line scrawled from his cheekbone to chest tightening painfully. Did the Omega see it when she saw him — or like his surroundings, was it shrouded?

What will she think of his disfigurement when it’s there before her?

He hardly thinks of the wound anymore, hardly remembers it — unless he’s remembering the man who gave it to him. Plotting his revenge. 

And revenge  _ will  _ come, now that he’s emperor. Nothing will stop him.

Certainly not some untrained little Omega, sun summoner or no.

Yet even as he thinks it, doubt stirs in his gut; whether he means to or not, he’s lying to his mother. The girl from his vision  _ is  _ important. Perhaps the most important thing in the galaxy.

Maybe even more important than vengeance.

After centuries of singleminded fury it’s too much to consider — and he shoves the feeling away.

_ Wanting makes us weak _ . 

Baghra’s own words. Words that have shaped him, whether or not he’ll admit as much to the crone before him and her uncannily ancient-but-young face.

“You’re wrong, old woman,” the Darkling sneers. “I’ll bring the sun summoner to my side, no matter what it takes.”

To his astonishment, she  _ laughs _ .

“Be sure you mean those words,” she chortles, wheezing with amusement. “There’s nothing more unbreakable than the bond between Alpha and Omega.”

He turns to leave, but her voice stops him.

“And Aleks?”

“What?” he growls, tight-jawed with anger again.

“If you don’t train her, someone else will.”

The thought is too much to be borne.

He slams the door hard enough to rattle the hinges, but the old woman’s laughter chases him back down the corkscrewing stairs, mocking him as he storms away into the eternal night.

🌘

Even as he stalks away, the feeling follows him, nipping at his heels more tenaciously than Baghra’s breathless cackling.

He could train her, the Omega sun summoner. He  _ could _ .

He  _ should _ .

It’s infuriating when Baghra’s right — which is altogether too frequently for his liking. She’s probably still howling in her tower, anticipating the wheels turning in his head.

But the way the Omega stirs his Alpha instincts is unsettling. His prey drive hasn't troubled him in years, but during those brief moments they were connected he felt even more awake, more  _ alive _ than he had dispatching Snoke.

It’s a wonder that the Jedi Examiners could’ve missed someone so powerful — but then, her powers had been shoved so far down inside her that he’d nearly missed them, too. It was as though she was fighting herself, fighting his call.

And then—

_ Then _ —

Her power had been bright, but her joy had been brighter still, spilling over through her skin. She was a chalice overflowing and filling him with radiance, a warmth he hadn't known he could feel anymore flaring to life in his chest.

And then, just as quickly, she was gone. Her mind shuttering with fear as she finally realized who was embracing her.

" _ Moya solnishka _ ," he mutters to himself, boots thudding against the stone floor like his jarring heartbeat as he finally makes up his mind.

After all, he vowed to tear the universe apart to find her — and the Darkling is not a man to go back on his word.

🌘

Once his mind is made up, there’s no time to waste. He’s already taken long enough.

Rose and Armie are first to join him, their tentative footsteps like velvet in the War Room’s hush. Their purple  _ kefta  _ are streaked with any number of powders from the Fabrikators’ supply shelves, and Rose self-consciously brushes the front of her robes as her gaze roves over the Darkling’s own spotless black  _ kefta _ .

“How are the  _ lumiya _ coming along?” he asks.

Rose stops worrying at her clothes. “Functional enough, considering where we are in the testing process.” Her gaze narrows in suspicion. “Why?”

“Just taking stock.”

She doesn’t believe the lie — he can see it in the skeptical scrunching of her nose as she throws herself down in one of the plush chairs. Armie seats himself awkwardly, resettling his glasses on the bridge of his nose and letting Rose brush his coppery hair out of his face.

The others arrive soon after. Finn Kir-Bataar from the Corporalki, as skilled a Healer as he is a Heartrender. His twin sister Jannah Kir-Bataar, eyeing him as hawkishly as ever, as though she yanked him out of the Jedi Order’s grip yesterday and not months ago. Phasma at her side, the two Etherealki women dripping with sweat as though they’ve come straight from a hard workout.

They all settle around the sprawling table and look to him, waiting. His  _ oprichniki _ , the only people in the universe that he trusts.

More or less.

“There’s a shatterpoint,” he says without preamble.

Phasma’s pale brows quirk dubiously, her ice-blue boring into him as the others exchange glances. “Where?”

“I’m not certain,” he admits, “but wherever she is, she isn’t likely to stay there much longer.”

“There hasn’t been a shatterpoint since…” Jannah begins before trailing off.

Rose’s eyes lock with his again. She alone knows his secret.

“Since the Temple burned,” she says quietly, sending a murmur of agreement around the table.

_ Since the Jedi Order started to change. _ That’s what they all know, but don’t need to say aloud. When it started to become corrupt, militarized. Loyal to the political factions that offered the Jedi money, power, influence.

Armie. Finn. Phasma. The ones they’ve rescued from the Order’s unforgiving clutches. They’re stony-faced with thought.

“They’ll be looking for her,” the Darkling says, and for a few long moments there’s only silence.

He’s almost begun to worry when Finn’s low, firm voice breaks the quiet. “Then we’d better find her first.”

The others nod in agreement. The Jedi Order might be underground now, but they’re no less a threat — and everyone here knows what will happen to a shatterpoint in  _ their _ hands.

Armie’s ginger hair flashes in the low light as he shakes his head. “The  _ lumiya _ aren’t ready to go into the Shadow Fold.”

“We wouldn’t want to test-drive them with so many variables in play,” Rose adds carefully.

Impatient as he is, he knows she’s right. An untested, possibly resistant sun summoner could spell disaster around ignition sources like that — and reluctantly, he nods.

Finn’s already on his feet. “I’ll get Poe, we’ll ready the  _ Kingfisher _ .” He glances back at Jannah and Phasma as he moves toward the door. “You coming?”

“He’s not even Grisha, he’s some wannabe  _ tsarevitch _ ,” Phasma grumbles, following Jannah with exaggerated reluctance as her Tidemaker partner tugs her up out of her chair.

“But he’s a wannabe  _ tsarevitch _ with a ship, and my brother’s boyfriend,” Jannah returns with an affable grin. “So shut it.”

Phasma tosses him a long-suffering look, but all he can do is shrug. Saints know the Dameron-Lanstov prince-turned-soldier annoys him, too, but Finn and Jannah are right — they  _ do _ need him. He’s almost as good of a pilot as the Darkling himself.

Rose lingers, staying with him even as Armie drifts back out of the War Room — no doubt heading back to his workshop to putter with  _ lumiya _ and  _ grenatye _ .

“What do you think?” he asks.

“I think you know better than most what’ll happen if Luke finds her,” Rose says quietly — and as one hand strays to her pendant, he knows she’s thinking of Paige.

“You think he’s still out there?”

Her eyes widen, and her eyebrows contort with astonishment. “You  _ don’t? _ ”

His lips clamp together, and she nods knowingly.

“She’s meant to be with us, Rose,” he says, hating how his voice catches strangely. “I can feel it.”

_ She’s meant to be with me.  _

That much he doesn’t dare say aloud — even to Rose.

She nods, and her lips curve in a pale smile. “Then let’s go save her,  _ moi soverennyi _ .”

Then she’s gone, his only true friend. Hurrying after her lover, leaving him alone with nothing but maps and his thoughts for company.

He’s been alone in the darkness for too long.

But he’s not alone. Not entirely.

The connection thrums — not open, but still there, teasing his thoughts like a heartbeat.

Maybe he can follow it to her.

“ _ Moya solnishka _ ,” he murmurs, half-afraid and half-hoping that wherever she is, she can hear him. “I swear to you on fire and blood, on shadow and bone, we’ll be together soon.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! If you need something else to jump into, the 🖤 Library of Els🖤 awaits (WIPs at the bottom, all others are complete!):
> 
> ⋇⋆✦⋆⋇ **SHORTIES** ⋇⋆✦⋆⋇
> 
> **Unabashed Crack**
> 
>   * [Last Egg-Void Tonight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27590822) (1.2K words) John Oliver/Adam Driver fanfic
> 

> 
> **Scorching Shorts (Rated E)**
> 
>   * [Beside the Lake](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22656958) (~3K words) Alt Canonverse, Pregnancy/HEA, Sweet
>   * [Feed the Beast](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27252910) (4.5K words) Monsterfucking, Magical Academy AU, Anal
>   * [Cindereyla](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22715353) (5K words) Valentine’s Day, Size Kink, Sweet
>   * [Miss Johnson & the Professor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22468996) (8K words) Professor/Student, Bedsharing, Pregnancy/HEA
>   * [Dreaming Ben Solo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24572977/chapters/59345956) (8.5K words) Canonverse, Force Bond, Sweet
>   * [The Fall of the New Republic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26667781) (9K words) Senator Rey/Butler Ben, Ageswap, Sweet
> 

> 
> **Darkfic Shorts (Rated E)**
> 
>   * [(Don’t) Leave the Porch Light On](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24540502) (~7K words) Noncon/Dominant Ben, A/B/O, Loss of Virginity 
>   * [Thickly Sown With Thorns, or, Sleeping Beauty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24860872/chapters/60143155) (~9K words) Noncon/Dominant Rey, Force Bond, Somnophilia
>   * [Amortentia: The Love that Binds](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24025063/chapters/57803374) (23.2K words) Dubcon, BDSM, Room of Requirement
> 

> 
> ✧༺♥༻✧ **LONGER WORKS** ✧༺♥༻✧
> 
> 🖤 **  
> [Daddy’s Knot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25711933)  
> ** (72.3K words) Darkfic/Noncon, A/B/O, Professor/Student, Prostitution/Sugar Baby  
>  _Omega Rey needs money to make her tuition payment. One night with a faceless Alpha and his twisted tastes promises to change that._
> 
> 🖤 **  
> [Episode IX: The Fall of Skywalker](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27821176/chapters/68111416)  
> ** (45.5K words) Canonverse, Screenplay, Dyad  
>  _The ending to the Skywalker Saga that we collectively deserved — a tale of mythic return and the final stand of both Dark and Light._
> 
> ★・・・ **ONGOING** ・・・★
> 
> ❤️ **  
> [Craving Kylo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14951468/chapters/34645847)  
> ** Obsession, BDSM, Shibari/Kinbaku, Billionaire/Sugar Baby  
>  _Programmer Rey Jakkusen agrees to become the BDSM submissive of tech titan Kylo Ren — but can she fulfill her contract without losing her heart?_
> 
> 🌘 **  
> [Make Me Your Villain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29251797/chapters/71828862)  
> ** Darkfic/Noncon, A/B/O, Grishaverse crossover  
>  _In which the destiny of Reylina Starkov, a scavenger and Omega sun summoner, becomes entwined with that of the Darkling, Alpha Emperor Kylo Ren._


End file.
